


You Are Dead And Buried, You Are Dead (That’s Being Revised!)

by GarlGarlic



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Child death (mentioned), Corpse Michael Afton, Crying, Dissociation, Eggs Benedict is Michael Afton, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Maggots, Michael Afton Has PTSD, Michael Afton has chronic pain, Michael has a boyfriend that he does not live with, Murder (mentioned), Post-Five Nights at Freddy's: Sister Location, The aftermath of Michael coming back to life, The narration is from Michael’s perspective so it’s super self-deprecating, Trans Michael Afton (Implied), Zombie, attempted murder (mentioned), graphic descriptions of wounds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28329258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarlGarlic/pseuds/GarlGarlic
Summary: Michael Afton comes back to life and has to deal with that. He is not feeling very cash money about it.
Relationships: Michael Afton/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 42





	1. Bro You Look Amazing!

Michael Afton awoke face down on the concrete in immense pain.

Ok, wait. The last thing he remembered was- getting trapped in the scooping room and- And dying. He had died. It was a quick, almost painless death. With his organs gone, oxygen could no longer get to his brain, and so it had shut off, and he had died.

Now he was lying facedown on a sidewalk. Alive. Alive? He wasn’t quite sure about that one. He felt wrong.  
He forced himself to sit up and assess the situation.  
He looked at his hands, and they looked shriveled and skeletal, his grayish-purple (grayish-purple!?) skin stretching over bones which had become exposed in a few areas. Shit.  
He was wearing his work uniform. But no shoes, for some reason. His clothes was torn and dirty.

He was in his neighborhood. Shit, fuck, he was in his neighborhood, and fucking Mrs. Garcia was looking at him with an expression of pure horror. He shot her a polite smile and a wave, and... based on her reaction that was a mistake. Shit.

He forced himself, shakily, to his feet and began walking in the direction of his house. The fact that he was walking (or alive) was a miracle, his legs felt like toothpicks.

After an uncomfortable and incredibly embarrassing (all the neighbors were staring at him through their windows like they had seen a ghost) walk, he arrived at his home. He tried the doorknob, and it was locked. For a moment he panicked, thinking that he was going to have to break into his own home. He frantically felt for his keys and found them in his right pocket, thank god. He unlocked the door and went inside. He threw his keys onto the table and made his way to the bathroom.

He stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked terrible. His skin was a mix of grayish-purple and a horrible, diseased looking greenish-yellow. He was pretty sure he had started growing mold. His face was emaciated. His everything was emaciated. His hair had mostly fallen out, save for a few patches, and his eyes looked... wrong, in a way he couldn’t quite describe. On his neck he could see the beginnings of the wound left by the blow that killed him. Slowly, he unbuttoned his shirt to assess the damage.

The wound stretched up his entire torso, and rotting, infected mess of lines branching across him. It wasn’t just one clean line. He hadn’t just been cut open, he had been _torn_. The wound had been messily stitched up, and even stapled in some places. The only thing holding his body together now was some threads and staples.  
He ran his finger along the wound and immediately regretted it as he realized that, #1: he was oozing various incredibly gross liquids, and #2: he had maggots inside of him. He had maggots, squirming, alive **MAGGOTS** , inside of him. He retched in repulsion.

He spent the next several minutes frantically finding spray to kill the maggots and spraying it onto his open wound, which stung like hell, but dealt with the problem of having to see living bugs squirming inside of him.

After that, he went to his bed and collapsed into it.


	2. Shock is a Natural First Response

Michael spent several hours lying in bed staring at the ceiling. Nothing felt real, and he felt as though he was hovering above his body, staring down at his own miserable, broken form. His mind was filled a buzzing akin to that of a TV that had been turned off. It was the most relaxed he had felt in a while.

After these hours passed he forced himself out of bed. He watched himself change out of his work uniform and into more casual clothes, which hung off of his emaciated body. He watched himself grab the cane that he had for bad pain days and make his way to the kitchen.

All his food had gone bad, which was just as well because he wasn’t even sure he could still eat. He wanted to though, it would help distract from the stress, while grounding him in his body. This distance from himself, this haziness, had gone from a welcome relief to something becoming increasingly unpleasant.   
Then again, what was the point of being in a body that wasn’t his? These recent events had only confirmed what had already been made clear to him; he did not belong to himself.

As he made his way to the couch, with the intent to watch TV until his mind turned to sludge, he was suddenly hit with the realization that he needed to call John, followed immediately by guilt over the fact that he depersonalized so hard that he forgot that he needed to call his partner.

He didn’t want to call him. John had begged him not to get the job at Circus Baby's Entertainment and Rental. He told Michael that he didn’t need to clean up his father’s mistakes. That he didn’t ever have to deal with his father again. Michael had done it anyway. He knew what might happen to him. He cruelly played with John’s emotions, promising to come back to him, even though he knew he couldn’t keep that promise.  
He didn’t know if the animatronics that had been occupying his body had done anything to John. He knew he wouldn’t be able to take the guilt if they had.  
He didn’t want John to see him like this. To see him as a disgusting, rotting corpse. John had been so afraid that he would die.

Michael sat in a state of guilt and panic for several minutes before forcing himself to go to the phone. He reluctantly typed in his partner’s phone number. He waited.

"Hey, Michael. You feelin’ any better?" John spoke softly, his voice filled with concern. If Michael had still had a stomach it would have dropped into hell by now.  
"I- John- I messed up. Something- Something went wrong. I- I’m so sorry. I don’t- You shouldn’t see me like this." He stumbled over his words, unsure of what to say.  
There was a brief pause.  
"I’m coming over." John said, before hanging up.

Michael made his way to the couch and sat down. He shut his eyes and let himself rot in his guilt as he waited for John to arrive.

There was a knock at the door.  
"Come in." Michael said.  
John opened the door and walked in.

"Oh- What’s that smell?!” He exclaimed, gagging a little from the stench of rotting flesh which filled the house. “Mike, what’s going on?"  
Michael stood up and turned towards John, allowing John to look at him.  
John looked horrified."What happened?" John asked, walking closer and staring at Michael’s half-rotten body with horror and concern.  
"I- I got killed. And worn as a skin suit. I’m not sure how long I was gone. But I’m back now. Sort of." Michael began laughing softly at the absurdity of it. John did not laugh.  
"I though you were just sick... You- I mean- The thing that was... wearing you..." John looked like he was going to be sick. "...told me that you were sick, and that I couldn’t come over ‘cause- ‘cause I could catch what you had."  
John moved closer to him, clearly feeling disgusted by the smell of rotting flesh, which Michael did not have to worry about since he was, mercifully, brought back without his sense of smell. John braved the smell out of desire to be close to him.  
"Mikey... We need to- to do something to stop your body from rotting more, You- you look like you’re going to fall apart soon."  
"I don’t know where to buy anything like that."  
"We can steal some from the- the place where they prepare dead bodies."  
"Yeah. Yeah, I suppose that’ll work."

The John continued looking at Michael, examining what had become of him. Michael looked at the ground, not wanting to see the concern in the eyes of another in a long line of people that he had caused unforgivable harm to.  
"I wish I could kiss you right now." John said. Michael smiled.  
"Maybe we can fix me up enough that you’ll be able to."  
John smiled with a mixture of hesitance and fondness.


	3. Sweet Bod!

Michael was alone, in his bathroom, completely nude except for his boxers (which were actually John’s boxers, because he had become too skinny for his own clothes), and awkwardly fiddling with the embalming supplies John had stolen for him. He had researched how embalming worked, and apparently you were supposed to inject the embalming... juice... into one of your veins and then it would, for the most part, naturally spread through your body.  
Michael was pretty sure his veins were no longer all connected, though, so he decided to just try his best to put it in as many places as he could.

But, first things first, he wanted to clean himself a bit more thoroughly. He spent several minutes awkwardly pulling out the stitches and staples that were barely holding his wound closed, which, unfortunately, still hurt, though not as much as it would’ve had he still be alive.  
Once he was finished, he pulled back his own skin to take a look at his hollowed-out insides.

His ribs were shattered, unfortunately. The sides of his rib cage were intact, but the front was completely destroyed. All his organs had been thoroughly cleaned out of him. Besides some (dead, thanks to the anti-insect spray, whatever it’s called) bugs, it was pretty clean in there.

Normally he would’ve been disgusted, but he felt far too distant from reality, and from his own body, to care.

He cleaned out the dead bugs, injected some embalming juice right into the internal wall of his chest, and then bandaged the thing up. Usually he wouldn’t, y’know, wrap bandages around his chest, but since he no longer needed to breathe, and his ribs were already damaged beyond repair, he assumed that it was probably fine.

He injected more embalming juice into various parts of his body, and then onto the areas where he had injected it to help move it around his body, just like he supposed to. He scrubbed himself down with a soapy washcloth, since he didn’t want to get his bandages wet in the shower (wet bandages were the worst). And he absolutely covered himself in deodorant. Finally, he sat down on the floor of the bathroom and prayed.

He was not a religious man. It’s hard not to feel abandoned by god when you’re a queer person whose life is basically just one long horror comedy. But Michael hoped that if there was a god out there that actually gave a shit about him, then maybe praying would do something.  
He prayed for a moment of actual peace. And he prayed for justice for everyone hurt in all the horrors surrounding the Fazbear Corporation. And then he stood up, put his clothes on, and left the room.

John had been waiting on the couch, watching TV and bouncing his leg anxiously. As soon as he saw Michael, he stood up and rushed over to him.

"How’re’ya feeling?" John asked softly.  
"Like shit." Michael replied. "Hopefully my body is gonna last a little longer now. Is the smell gone?"  
"Mostly.” He paused. “Is it- is it alright if I touch you?"  
"Sure."

John moved closer to him and caressed his face. John’s face was lined with worry. He pulled Michael into a gentle hug.

"I’m worried that I’m going to break you if I hug you too tight." John muttered, sounding as though he was holding back tears.  
"Well, if you do end up damaging my body, at the very least it probably won’t kill me." Michael said with a laugh, trying to lighten the mood. John started sobbing into his shoulder.

Michael stroked John’s back soothingly. He felt like pure shit, and he knew he deserved to feel that way. All he ever did was cause harm. He knew he had broken John’s heart once again, and he knew he would only break it more in the future.

"I’m so sorry... I shouldn’t have gone to Circus Baby’s.... I’m so sorry..." He muttered into John’s shoulder.

The two of them stayed like that for a while, John crying and Michael mumbling apologies. Holding each other. Eventually, John pulled away from him, and then leaned in again to plant a kiss on his lips. It didn’t last very long, and it was almost certainly unsanitary due to the fact the Michael was basically a walking sack of rotting flesh.

"We’re going to get through this, ok? We’re going to get through this together." John said lovingly. They had promised that to each other so many times. It was a promise that wouldn’t be fulfilled.


	4. Die-Hard Fans Adored Your Hands, They Loved Your Throat and, Quote-Unquote, "You"

It took over a week before Michael was... himself... enough, to truly feel his own feelings. His feelings about his father. It happened late at night, lying in bed, with John sleeping next to him. Everything just hit him like a truck.

His father was a murderer. His father had done unspeakably horrific things. He had known that for a long time. And he could hate him, for what he had done to all those kids. But he struggled to hate his father for himself.

The realization that his father had just used him, most likely with the full intent of letting of allowing Michael to be killed in his stead, was what finally opened the floodgates.

His father had called him out of nowhere, years after Michael had excommunicated him. He had told Michael about what happened to Beth. About how he needed to set her free. To "put her back together". He had called Michael his real name, like he always did when he wanted something from him.

And he had said "I love you, Michael. I love you, my son."

Those words were a curse coming from him. His own name was an insult when it fell from his fathers lips, and the words "I love you" were a threat. A warning to bend to his will, or else.  
But he had said these words so fondly and gently, and he had spoken of Beth with so much remorse. And Michael couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, his father actually cared for him, actually cared for his dead siblings.

Of course he didn’t. Of course he had just been using Michael. Again.

That thought was what finally broke the dam. Michael began sobbing. It came out dry and hoarse and gasping. His entire body shook as he tried desperately to be quiet because he didn’t want to wake John up and he didn’t want to be a bother, but it hurt so much.

He felt as though his entire body and mind and soul was being consumed by fire. Hot and painful, and yet purifying and freeing.

Tears fell from his eyes, but they were made from embalming fuel mixed with old blood. The dark liquid spilled down his face and into his pillow as he wept.

John stirred and then sat up, looking down on Michael with concern.  
"Mikey... What’s wrong?" John slurred, still half asleep.

Michael sat up.  
"I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to wake you," He mumbled hoarsely through tears. "I’m just thinking about. Him."  
"I fucking hate him," Michael choked out. "I hate him so much..." He sobbed, burying his face in his hands.

"Is it alright if I hug you?" John asked.  
"Not right now." Michael said.

  
They sat for there for a while, Michael sobbing and John simply sitting and watching him. After a while, Michael finally spoke again.

"Is it wrong, to never want to forgive him?" Michael began, his voice quiet and hoarse. "People always- People always talk about forgiveness, about how you need to forgive to be heal. But hating my father, really hating him, makes me feel... freer than I have in a while."

"I dunno, man. I think healing is different for everyone. Maybe for a lot of people, forgiving is what helps them. And maybe what you really need is to just. Be angry." John said softly.  
Michael nodded in thanks. 

He continued crying for a while. He cried angrily, hatefully, and for himself. And it felt good. Because to be righteously angry about what his father had done to him, and to truly and completely hate his father, meant that what had happened to him was unjust.

It was wrong, and it was unjust, and it was cruel. And he didn’t deserve it. He was allowed to be angry, and he was allowed to hate, for as long as he needed to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going through some shit <3

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Lifetime Achievement Award by Lemon Demon. Please look into the work of Lemon Demon/Neil Cicierega I’m begging you


End file.
